


Oi, Malfoy!

by oncetwicenever



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Romance, harry definitely has a 'saving people thing', it started as a one shot idk what happened, slowburn, we'll see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 11:26:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18141575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncetwicenever/pseuds/oncetwicenever
Summary: When Draco returns to Hogwarts for his eighth year, all he wants to do is keep his head down and avoid the glares that are constantly thrown his way. However, a flaw in his plan arrives in the form of green eyes and messy black hair - because of course Potter is too stubborn to just let him be._________________Basically I was dared to write a drarry slow burn





	Oi, Malfoy!

Draco gritted his teeth as he entered the dungeons. It was ironic, he thought, that the classroom he had previously felt so comfortable in now made his skin crawl. He could feel all the eyes tracking his every move at he sat down at the only empty desk in the back of the room, grateful that he would be out of sight and had arrived early enough that he wouldn’t need to sit next to anyone. He didn’t know if he could bear working next to someone.

He refused to allow himself the chance to scan the classroom to see who else had bothered to return for their eighth year of school. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Granger, which was no surprise, and Finnigan, slightly more so. Something twinged in his gut at the sight of Granger, and he kept his head down as he unpacked his potion ingredients. 

He heard the squeak of the chair next to him being pulled back. His fists clenched. Purposely kept his gaze ahead as he finished laying out his ingredients, he kept his eyes on Professor Slughorn and the blank blackboard.

His new desk partner cleared their throat, and Draco remained looking steadily ahead as Slughorn began the lesson. The portly man gave a brief explanation of the theory behind Skele-Gro, before writing the instructions for the first half of the potion on the board. 

Draco began to thinly slice his fluxweed when his desk partner cleared his throat again. Sighing internally, and preparing himself for an ugly confrontation about betrayal and being on the wrong side of the war, he lifted his gaze, only to inhale in shock. Two bright green eyes stared at him with interest. The same green eyes that haunted his dreams.

“Potter,” Draco acknowledged with a raised eyebrow, his stomach plummeting into his well-shined shoes.

“I didn’t expect I’d see you back here,” Potter said unabashedly. Draco blinked.

“Well, here I am.” Draco tore his gaze away from those intense emerald eyes and tossed the fluxweed into his cauldron. He began to measure out the salamander blood before glancing over at Potter again. He hadn’t stopped staring.

_ If I can just get through this year,  _ he thought to himself,  _ I never have to see any of these people again. I won’t have to face this guilt again. _

They didn’t exchange another word throughout the lesson. Draco finished his potion only seconds after Granger, which he rather thought he deserved a pat on the back for, and wasted no time in packing his things and leaving a vial of his potion on Slughorn’s desk.

He had one foot out the door when he heard a faintly whispered, “Malfoy! Oi, Malfoy!” 

Pretending he hadn’t heard it, he sped up his pace slightly and headed to the eighth year common room. McGonagall had decided that house rivalry was a dangerous thing in the aftermath of the war, but wasn’t naive enough to believe that she could throw a Slytherin and a Gryffindor into the same dorm room and expect it to go off without a hitch. She had come up with the solution of a shared common room but different dorms, which Draco supposed was a good compromise. He was just thankful that he and Blaise were the only Slytherins that had returned to Hogwarts. It was a little awkward, but he would much rather share a room with Blaise than anyone else. He and Blaise had the same mentality; give each other space.

He muttered “ _ Ut simul stare _ ,” and the tall portrait of hunchbacked seamstress swung open to reveal a mostly empty common room. He spotted two Ravenclaw girls huddled over a table spread with complicated Arithmancy charts, and MacMillan the Hufflepuff curled up in an armchair with a pile of pamphlets spilling over his lap.

MacMillan’s head lifted as the portrait door swung shut behind Draco. He could see the Hufflepuff’s lips curl into a disgusted sneer. Draco kept his features blank as he walked past MacMillan and up the stairs to the Slytherin dormitory. He collapsed on his bed and began to hurry through his homework, wanting to get to the feast and eat before everyone else got there. He hated crowds. The thought of being among so many people after what he did - 

He couldn’t stomach it. 

The next day, Draco got through all of his classes without incident. Potter wasn’t in his Ancient Runes class, and he sat in the front next to Granger or Weasley in Transfiguration, Charms, and and Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Privately, Draco wondered why Potter even bothered showing up to Defense. With his experiencem, he ought to be the one teaching it, not the grey-haired ministry witch whose speech patterns weren’t unlike that of Professor Binns’. It was clear, however, that while the fame of defeating the Dark Lord twice must have gone to Potter’s head, he was still adamant that most of it was luck.

He had no idea how terrifying it was to be on the other end of his wand. Draco still woke up in a cold sweat sometimes, memories of the duel in the bathroom in sixth year pounding in his head. 

The same as the day before, Draco did all of his homework up in his dorm room before heading down to grab dinner before everyone else arrived. He dissappeared back up to the room he shared with Blaise just as the Great Hall began to fill, and he breathed a sigh of relief once he was alone again. 

Draco felt a small twinge of trepidation as he walked into potions the next mornng, hopeful that Potter had moved up to sit with Granger. 

No such luck. Potter was in the same seat as yesterday, and there wasn’t a single seat free except for the one next to him. With an internal sigh, Draco began laying his potions kit out next to Potter. 

“Malfoy,” he started to say, but to Draco’s great relief Slughorn cut him off and started the lesson. Throughout the entire period, Draco was hyperaware of Potter’s movements, constantly nervous that he would try to speak to him again. Draco didn’t know what Potter could possibly have to say to him, or what on earth Draco would say back.  He worked as quickly as he could, hoping to get out of the classroom before Potter could ambush him with whatever it was he was so desperate to say to him. He managed to finish his potion before anyone else, and after a brief discussion with Slughorn on the theory, he was out of the classroom before Potter had even finished his potion. He knew he wouldn’t be able to avoid him forever, but that wasn’t going to stop him from trying.

For the next several days, Draco’s admittedly rather faulty plan went off without a hitch. He worked quickly and studiously during class, slipping out before Potter could catch him and before he could dwell too much on the dirty looks most people threw him.

It wasn’t the disgust in most people’s eyes that hit him in the chest, though. It was the look of pity in Granger’s. He refused to look at Potter long enough to gauge what the hero thought of him. 

He should have known the reprieve from confrontation was too good to last. Friday morning, he had barely left the dungeons after potions when he was cornered by a Hufflepuff seventh year.

“How can you bear showing your face here?” He demanded. Draco didn’t reply. He wanted to avoid a fight if at all possible. “How can you live with yourself, after what you and your people did?” 

“Look,” Draco said calmly, “If there was -”

“My sister died in the battle,” the Hufflepuff said, his enraged eyes sparkling with the threat of tears. “Your aunt killed her.”

Draco felt sick. “And I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, ignoring the twinge in his gut, “But I need to get to -”

“I don’t think you get it,” the boy snarled, wiping his eyes quickly on the back of his sleeve. “My sister is  _ dead. _ And you were on their side. You should be locked in Azkaban with that murderous piece of vermin you call a father.” Draco was suddenly very aware of the wand the other boy was gripping tightly in his hand, his knuckles white. 

He raised his hands slowly. “You have no idea how sorry I am, how much I wish that things had been different,” he said gently, “and -”

“Incarcerous!” The Hufflepuff cried, and thick cords of rope wrapped themselves tightly around Draco. He swore.

“This is for Lydia,” he whispered, and Draco winced as the Hufflepuff raised his wand -

“Expelliarmus!” Came an annoyingly familiar voice. The Hufflepuff’s wand flew out of his hand, and Draco’s heart jumped into his throat. 

Because of course his savior was Potter. 

“Get out of here,” Potter ordered the Hufflepuff after throwing his wand back on the cold stone floor. The boy swallowed, shot one last angry glare at Draco, and took off down the corridor after picking up his wand.

“Diffindo,” Potter murmured, and the ropes around Draco fell apart. 

“Thanks, but I don’t you to save me. I’m not some damsel in distress,” Draco snapped, straightening his robes. Potter raised an eyebrow.

“Ouch, Malfoy. I was only trying to help.”

“Well don’t,” Draco retorted, before brushing past the war hero.

“Oi, Malfoy, wait! I’ve been trying to talk to you -”

Draco rolled his eyes and spun on his heel to face Potter. “What? You saved me to feed your hero complex, and now you’re going to get revenge on everyone who died by attacking me? Go ahead.”

Potter had the audacity to look surprised at Draco’s venom. “Actually,” he said slowly, looking Draco up and down as if reevaluating him, “I just wanted to thank you.”

Of all the things that could have possibly come out of Potter’s mouth, that was possibly the one Draco had least expected. “You what?”

“I wanted to thank you. Or - thank your mother, really, but she isn’t exactly… available.” There was a beat, when Potter seemed to expect him to say something. When he remained silent, Potter continued. “I just - she saved my life, the day of the battle. In the forest. She managed to fool Voldemort into thinking I was dead.”

Draco crossed his arms. “Yeah, well, she still ended up in Azkaban, didn’t she?” He said bitterly. Potter at least at the decency to look ashamed, his gaze shifting down to look at his toes.

“I did try - I went to her lawyer, and the minister, and the Head of the DMLE - they all said she would go no matter what. But - the minister said she would get a lighter sentence -”

Draco snorted. “It’s Azkaban, Potter. It doesn’t make a difference if it’s fourty years or a hundred. She’ll likely go mad either way.” His tongue tasted black, and suddenly his vision was slightly blurred. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” he muttered, “I have a class to get to.” 


End file.
